


Deliberate, reckless, ill-advised

by notwisely



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 08:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17179520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwisely/pseuds/notwisely
Summary: "Well, it seems your partner had an attack of conscience and gave us a full confession," Detective Morris says, unlocking Debbie's handcuffs, "you're free to go, ma'am."Debbie unfolds herself from the cramped metal chair and tries to smile coolly through swell of relief traitorously weakening her knees. Then she steps out of the interrogation room and sees a shock of white blonde hair and understanding hits her like a sixteen-wheeler to the sternum.





	Deliberate, reckless, ill-advised

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this was going to be "resolved angst" but i ran out of steam & also forgot about it in my WIPs for three months. i do assume there's an eventual happy ending in this AU after the events of the movie, though!

"Well, it seems your partner had an attack of conscience and gave us a full confession," Detective Morris says, unlocking Debbie's handcuffs, "you're free to go, ma'am."

Debbie unfolds herself from the cramped metal chair and tries to smile coolly through swell of relief traitorously weakening her knees. She mentally downgrades her elaborate ten-part revenge scheme to a well-crafted scathing remark to Claude about doing his research before attempting stupid fucking gambits.

Honestly? In the back of her mind, she's a little surprised. She'd seen the look on Claude's face at the restaurant and thought—well, this is it. She knows Claude, though, and she's sure he's wrangled some kind of deal with the DA. Maybe community service, or a brief stint under house arrest. He'll come out on top.

Then she steps out of the interrogation room and sees a shock of white blonde hair and understanding hits her like a sixteen-wheeler to the sternum. She must make some kind of noise, because Lou turns and they lock eyes for just a moment— _wait_ , she wants to say, _wait, that's not_ —but her eyes snag on Lou's wrists, on the gleam of the handcuffs, and then Lou's being pushed down the hallway and through a set of swinging doors and out of sight.

Debbie tries to take a breath and half-chokes on it. She's– she's furious, is what she is.

*

She thinks the officers apologize for the misunderstanding as they show her out. Debbie's not paying much attention, the words a blurred jumble as she walks out of the precinct, out of the taxi, up the stairs, back into her apartment, and straight to the stash of good liquor they keep behind the bookshelf.

"I had it handled," she mutters, unscrewing the cap, "She thinks I can't take care of myself? I can take care of myself. I had it _handled_."

She looks down an indeterminate number of drinks later and realizes she's been taking swigs of the 40-year-old Dalmore, straight from the bottle. Lou's going to kill her—except, too bad, she can't.

She takes another shot of whiskey and doesn't think about how Lou is happiest on her bike on the wide open road, the countryside falling away on either side of her; how she gets fidgety if they stay in one town for too long, twitchy at the stagnation; how she hates being stuck, being tied down—being trapped.

She doesn't think about Lou, pinned between two officers, her hands cuffed behind her back.

She doesn't think about how she could read the look on Lou's face, under the shitty fluorescent lights; how she could see the resignation and determination, but underneath it the cold weight of fear.

She's livid, she's _so mad_ , and the next time she sees Lou they're going to have a long conversation about pulling dumbass stunts without consulting your partner beforehand. She's—

The bottle crashes against the wall. It's empty, at least.

*

"I don't– I don't understand," Debbie says, hands twisting nervously in her lap, "What happened?" Det. Susan Wilcox, says the nameplate on the detective's desk. Deb remembers Lou stumbling as the officer shoved her forward, and something cold and vicious coils in her gut.

"Don't worry sweetheart," Wilcox says, "we got it all straightened out. Caught her masquerading as a police officer, trying to threaten Mr. Becker. Managed to grab her before she could say anything, and Mr. Becker turned out to be _very_ helpful. All we had to do was relay what he'd told us and she folded like wet newspaper. I've seen enough of these con artist types in my day, you know, and they're all swagger no substance."

"But what did she _say_?" Her tone's too abrupt. It's a mistake, letting the detective get to her like that, and Debbie can't afford mistakes right now. She drops her eyes, forces her fingers to unclench from the cheap fabric of the plain skirt this Debbie Ocean—confused by the world she's accidentally stumbled into, frightened of criminals, law-abiding in all respects—wears. "I'm sorry, I just– it feels like my whole life got turned inside out."

"Oh of course, of course," Wilcox smiles patronizingly, "it's a lot to take in. Ms. Miller was using your identity to pose as an artist to fence stolen goods. She sold Mr. Becker a painting and told him she'd send an associate to help close the deal—you, naturally. I'm sure you thought you were just doing a favor for a friend, but," the detective pauses, to emphasize the gravity of the situation, "What you did was actually _highly_ illegal."

"Don't worry, though," she says, as Debbie stares blankly at the scratched wood of the desk, "we got the right criminal in the end. Lou Miller's going to be wearing that orange jumpsuit for a long, long time."

*

"Ms. Miller isn't taking visitors." The guard informs her politely, next Saturday. Debbie thanks him, equally politely, her smile so sharp it feels like it could draw blood.

She retrieves her phone from security and glances down at the screen. 12 missed calls. It rings again as she steps out of the prison, blinking a little against the midday glare as she slides on the sunglasses she picked up along with her phone. Ray-Bans, nice, newish, she notes clinically. She hopes their owner won't miss them too much.

The phone vibrates accusingly in her hand, and, sighing, Debbie answers the call.

"What the hell happened?" Tammy doesn't bother with meaningless _are you okay_ s, with questions she already knows the answer to. Debbie's grateful.

"I'm fixing it." She says, willing herself to believe it. "I'm going to fix it."

*

When she corners Becker, he's at the gallery overseeing the movers as they wrap up the last few paintings. It's unnerving, being in the space with its empty white walls, stripped of any color or life.

He turns at the sound of the door closing behind her, eyes widening in surprise before he breaks into a grin. Debbie feels like her face has frozen into a mask, is half certain he'll see the rage and– and _fury_ , nothing more, boiling behind her eyes.

"Debbie! You're looking well," He says, walking over, "They told me you made it out, but it's good to see it in person."

"Where are you going?" Debbie asks, her voice flat.

"I thought—England, perhaps. It takes a Londoner to really appreciate art, you know, and I think the gallery is exactly the kind of experience they're looking for." His smile slips a little, going uncertain when she doesn't respond in kind.

"What happened at the station?" Debbie says.

"Ah some blonde came in and tried to rough me up, but they removed her–"

"What did she _say_?" Debbie all but snarls, and Becker takes an alarmed step back, holding both his hands up placatingly.

"Whoa whoa, all right. She came into the cell and told me she'd break both of my legs if I didn't play along. I said I wasn't going to jail, and she said no, I wasn't, I just had to give them the name 'Lou Miller' instead of yours." Becker takes a hesitant step forward, "I did it for _you_ too, Debbie. I got us both out of there." He reaches out to cup her cheek and Debbie pulls her arm back and decks him, his nose crunching satisfyingly under the blow. Perfect form. Lou would be proud.

Becker's outraged howls as she strides out of the gallery do nothing to shake the cold, hollow feeling that's settled in her chest.

*

"Ms. Miller isn't taking visitors." The guard says. Debbie wants to smash something, to break a window or knock over a table—but she did that on the third Saturday and was told in no uncertain terms she wouldn't be allowed back to the visitor's room if there was a repeat performance. The guard shifts awkwardly, something in her eyes approaching sympathy. Debbie Ocean isn't someone that accepts _pity_ , doesn't want anything given to her that she hasn't stolen with her own two hands, but she feels like she's fraying at both ends, unravelling and unable to stop it.

"Are you _sure_?" she asks, and she can't even pretend that her voice is steady when she asks it.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." The guard says.

*

_Fuck you, Lou_ , she thinks. _Fuck_.

*

"Tammy," she says into the phone, an unwise amount of vodka later, "Tammy, Tammy, Tams." The room is wobbling a little, dizzyingly.

"Deb?" says Tammy, "Jesus, it's like four– nevermind. Debbie? Are you there?"

"I think," she stops, tilts sideways until she's slumped against the bed.  "I think I fucked up," Debbie says quietly, half-hoping Tammy won't hear it.

Tammy doesn't say "You _think_?" which Debbie knows is more than she deserves. Mom powers, Debbie thinks. You rise to a new level of maturity when everyone around you is acting like a fucking child, probably. Instead, Tammy says, "Deb. She's saying she doesn't want to see you. Maybe it's time you tried listening, for a change."

And that’s—that's not what Debbie _wants_. She feels like a two-year-old and she _hates_ it. It wasn't—the thing with Becker wasn't for _keeps_ , it was just another part of the game. Each narrow-eyed glare when she followed Lou into a club with Becker on her arm a tiny, mean triumph, each time Lou pressed her lips together and turned away another point to Debbie. But she'd known, she'd _known_ that she and Lou would find their way back sooner or later. She'd been so absolutely certain.

"I can't–" she starts, "It doesn't mean anything without her," Debbie says, stumbling over the words, "None of it fucking means _anything_." She sits in the darkness, listening to Tammy pretend not to hear the hitch in her breath as she says, "I don't know how to do this without her."


End file.
